Undead and Unwelcome (Undead #8)

Undead and Unwelcome (Undead #8) Page 12

Chapter 26

Dude,

I swear my intentions were good. But I vastly overestimated Laura's state of mind and underestimated the rapidity with which things could deteriorate. And when Tina started having trouble sending and receiving e-mails, I honestly didn't make the connection until it was too late.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

More Satanists showed up and, instead of hiding from them or being embarrassed by them, Laura started briskly giving them orders. She spent a lot of time on the web finding charitable organizations where she could send the devil worshippers, and soon there were Satanists all over the metro area, cheerfully raising money for the homeless or participating in Meals on Wheels.

I admit, dude, I was proud of myself. I didn't go into medicine for the money, obviously, so helping people always put me in a good mood. And Laura, for all her advantages, needed me as much as any patient. It's just too damn bad I was too busy patting myself on the back to notice what was really going on.

Tina came and went, always on her own schedule, and I knew better than to ask her what she was up to. Mostly because it was none of my business, but also because she was as closed-mouthed about her work as I was about mine.

There had been a bad crack-up on I-35-no fatalities, thank God-so I didn't get home until about 2:30 A.M. I headed straight for the kitchen (I had finally gone grocery shopping, so there was actual food in the fridge), where I found Tina sitting at the counter with her laptop, muttering to herself.

"Hey."

"Good morning," she said, not looking up.

"Everything okay?"

"Mmmm." Then, thoughtfully, "You had a busy night, I see."

Ah. Right. I had found it prudent to change out of my scrubs the moment I got home-or, even better, before I left the hospital. It didn't matter if the blood on me was ten minutes old or ten hours. They could always smell it.

"Car crash."

"Mmmm."

I set about making myself a tuna sandwich while Tina pecked away at her laptop. She seemed a little off-annoyed, maybe, or distracted.

"Everything okay?"

"Hmmm?" She looked around as if noticing me for the first time. "Oh. Yes, everything's fine. I'm getting a poor wireless signal. My e-mails to His Majesty keep bouncing."

"So call."

"I have."

"Oh. You don't think anything's wrong, do you?"

"I'm sure they're fine."

I believed her. But I also knew what was bugging her. Tina lived for Betsy and Sinclair, the way most people lived for racing cars or marathons. When she couldn't keep in touch, she got antsy. Not unlike a drug addict going through withdrawal, to be perfectly blunt.

"Betsy answered my e-mail," I volunteered. It was a typical Betsy missive: bitchy and shrill. She really hated e-mail acronyms. The woman should really catch up to this century's lingo. "I'm sure she's already won over the werewolves and they're somewhere partying like it's 1999."

Tina slapped the laptop closed and smiled at me. "I'm sure you're right. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go out."

To hunt. And feed. She was too polite to say so, of course. But I sure as hell wasn't going to stand in her way. A grumpy vampire is a homicidal vampire. Hungry ones were even worse.

"Heck," I called after her, "they've probably declared it National Betsy Day out on Cape Cod. You know she can win over just about anybody."

Yes, dude, I know. In retrospect that was beyond ignorant. But how was I supposed to know they were going to kill her?

Chapter 27

I opened my eyes and saw a ring of tense faces above me. The first few times this had happened to me I'd been badly startled, but now I was getting used to being killed and then brought back to life.

"Ow," I commented, sitting up. There was a sizeable hole in my blouse and suit jacket. Not to mention an unconscious werewolf three feet away. And BabyJon was still howling. "You'd better give him to me."

Wide-eyed, Sara knelt beside me and obliged. BabyJon hushed at once, giving me a chance to take a good look around.

"Oh, man," I said, eyeing the werewolf who, I assumed, had driven a chair leg into my heart. "Sinclair, what did you do to him?"

"I only hit him once," my husband replied in that faux-casual tone that didn't fool me one bit.

"Where'd everybody go?"

Aside from Sara, Sinclair, Jeannie, Michael, BabyJon, and Derik, the room was empty. Oh, and let's not forget the werewolf who killed me.

"Michael cleared the room after you were attacked. Ah-it's none of my business," Sara continued, "but why aren't you a pile of dust?"

"It's a queen of the undead thing," I said, trying to get my feet under me so I could stand. Sinclair gripped one of my arms, Michael the other, and they hauled me up. I stared down at my ruined suit and sighed.

"I must apologize on the Pack's behalf," Michael said stiffly. He appeared calm, but I had the distinct impression he was mortified.

And Jeannie was pissed. "There was no excuse for that. At all." She turned to Sinclair. "You should have torn his damned head off."

"Maybe next time," my husband replied.

"Again, I apologize." Michael nodded at the still-snoring werewolf. "He will be dealt with; you have my word."

"No, don't."

"Sorry, what?"

"Just forget it."

"Elizabeth," my husband began warningly.

"Let's not make things any worse than they already are. Look! No harm, no foul. I'm fine. He can buy me a new suit and we'll call it even."

"Unacceptable," Sinclair said flatly and, wonder of wonders, Michael was nodding in agreement. Finally, they had a goal in common: ignoring my express wishes.

But for a change I had the chance to be the better man-so to speak-and moved to take advantage of it. Maybe I was beginning to think more politically in my old age. "I mean it, you guys. Let it go. It was a bad situation for all of us. It's not like I didn't provoke him. Come on, let's forget about it and move on. This Council thing-when are we supposed to talk to them?"

"Tomorrow," Michael said, giving me a look I'd never seen on his face before. Grudging admiration? Disbelief in my sanity? Maybe he just had to use the bathroom. "Midnight."

Ah, yes. Midnight. Not too big of a cliche. But I kept that to myself-I'd shot my mouth off enough for one night.

"So, we'll be there. But let's call it a night for now. I don't know about you guys, but I've had about all the excitement I can take for one day. Night. Whatever."

Sara laughed; she was the only one who did. But at least the others seemed to tacitly agree, because they fell back and let Sinclair, BabyJon, and me get back to our suite.

"Are you okay?" I muttered out of the side of my mouth, patting BabyJon on the rump. Hoo! The boy needed a diaper change in the worst way.

"I am deeply, deeply regretting not putting my fist through your attacker's skull," Sinclair replied neutrally.

"Don't worry. There's always tomorrow."

Sinclair snorted, but seemed to lighten up. That was a good, good thing. I'm sure the werewolves were all badass and everything, but none of them had a thing on my husband, who wasn't only a) the king of the vampires and b) old and wily, but c) wouldn't tolerate people messing with me.

If they hadn't learned that after tonight, there was no hope for them, and no hope for reconciliation. And then what?

War, maybe. A vampire/werewolf war.

Swell.